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sure? His aunt Piera has been a widow since she was thirty. He’d like to ask her why she never remarried. Did she believe there to be only one intended in a lifetime? In-tended . He thinks about Bernette, how much he does not tend to her needs. “There is someone,” he says. “Bernette. But she lives a long way from me — across the country in the United States.”
    Piera looks at him, frowns. “Distance,” she says.
    When she’s done, she reaches for a small bottle on the bedside table, half fills an eyedropper, and squirts the contents on her tongue. “Here,” she says, slipping a key into his hand. “I’m trusting you to lock the door when you leave.” Then she closes her eyes and sleeps.
    David unpacks in one of the four bedrooms that used to make up the servants’ quarters. He was never allowed here as a child, although he tried unsuccessfully — Vergognati! Shame on you! — to sneak in on various occasions. Teresa has opened up this unused wing, and now she and Clarissa are vacuuming and dusting, pulling sheets off the furniture. He folds three shirts, two pairs of pants, socks, and underwear into one drawer of the large antique chest. On the top he lays his laptop, Palm Treo, and travel charger. His running gear, sandals, and light jacket he throws on the stuffed chair beside the bed.
    All the siblings are coming to bury their brother Vito — Aldo from Milan, Renato from Australia, and Mimí from Lecce. David, Clarissa, and Aldo will stay on this floor with Piera, and the rest downstairs at Teresa’s. David wanders through the apartment, marvelling at the way memory distorts physical space. What he recalls are immense rooms, higher ceilings, balconies perched dizzying heights above the street. Even the door frames wider, as if the past were a grander place. Piera has lived here for fifty-five years, ever since she was seventeen, first in the original villa that belonged to her husband, then when she found herself alone, in this renovated space designed to accommodate Teresa and Marco.
    For two days, they wait. David puts on his running gear and jogs around town several times a day. Piera lets him in at mealtimes, to bring her food. She refuses to discuss anything to do with the family, but she does ask about him. What books has he translated? Does he still read Italian literature? When will he write something that she can read in Italian? The minute she’s done eating, she takes her tranquillizer drops, and falls into a stupefied sleep. She still will not allow anyone else into the room, so Clarissa spends her time with Teresa. David has yet to ask about Vito and the letters from Argentina.

    Mimí arrives the following morning from Lecce, on the train, with her husband Fazio, a mild-mannered, gentle man, who wears a permanent martyred expression. Mimí is a porcelain doll, with large brown eyes and fine flaxen hair. Narcissistic, even with the extra pounds around her waist, she is exquisite, fragile as ever. As soon as they’re inside, she air-kisses everyone, then dispatches Fazio to one of the bedrooms with their suitcase, throws her purse in the middle of the hall, then raps repeatedly on Piera’s door. “What is the meaning of this new drama?” she yells, without preliminaries. “Open up!”
    Piera does not respond.
    Mimí turns the handle and pushes her weight against the door, which does not give.
    â€œGo away. Go away, all of you,” Piera’s cicada voice calls in the dry air.
    Mimí smirks. “Go away. Go away all of you,” she says, in mocking tones. “You should be glad we’re here. Teresa could call the police, you know.”
    â€œI haven’t done anything,” Piera says, her voice breaking.
    â€œYou’ve lied to us. What did you do to Vito?”
    Loud sobs come through the door.
    â€œOh, for God’s sakes! We should be the ones sobbing!” Mimí